


lights

by velvetgunfire



Series: AU Merry Christmas (present-fics) [1]
Category: w-inds. (Band)
Genre: AU, M/M, sensitive content untagged due to spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-30
Updated: 2006-12-30
Packaged: 2019-04-28 02:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14439246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetgunfire/pseuds/velvetgunfire
Summary: There's only one thing he regrets. Only one.





	lights

He's at the age where pop singers record their 'Greatest Hits' album before gracefully bowing out of the limelight, or consigning themselves to a niche audience, or retiring behind the scenes to produce the next up-and-coming young thing. The public has a fickle memory, even for one such as he. He can remember the days when thousands turned up for their performances as a group, and thousands more for his solo concerts. Not that Keita regrets it, not at all. He has a string of albums he's proud of, under his belt, music composed and performed with love and all his heart can give.   
  
There's only one thing he regrets. Only one.  
  
_"Keita," says Ryuichi, "Keita, look at me." Ryuichi's heart is in his eyes, young but all of eighteen, and Keita is terrified;_  
  
He jumps when his cell rings, and then snaps it open and answers. "Tachibana here."   
  
"Keita," Ryohei's voice is warm, caressing. "Want to go for dinner? I'm closing the school early today."  
  
Ryohei runs his own dance school in Tokyo, it's successful enough that it's expanded into a chain reaching as far as Hokkaido, which Ryohei is both proud of and embarrassed about, strangely enough. He vacillates between the two and usually settles for dismissing the topic altogether.  
  
"Yes," Keita says. "Of course. I'll be right down."   
  
These days their fans are few and far between, most have settled down with families and have no further use for the fripperies of youth in their middle age. It makes for easy travelling, he can now go anywhere he wants in public without fear of being mobbed.   
  
He comes into the studio just as Ryohei is signing up the latest pupil. The boy looks young, fresh-faced and innocent, and he's carrying a duffel over his shoulder, university texts peeking out of its open zipper.   
  
Keita stands by the door, leans on the frame, and waits.   
  
"My name is Ryuichi," says the boy, "Oshiro Ryuichi."   
  
Ryohei's pen scratches on the application form, then pauses. "Yeah," the boy prompts. "Like the kanji for dragon, that's right."   
  
Keita takes the opportunity to size Ryohei up. Ryohei's in pretty good shape, as in Keita, at the age where most men have married and run to fat as their wives feed them overly well at every meal. Ryohei's thin as a whippet, corded muscle, since he runs a dance school where he personally instructs or oversees lessons constantly throughout the day, and Keita's fit, because he still works out for the camera, which is beginning to pick up the deepening wrinkles at the sides of his eyes. Such are the perils of the territory that comes with being in-between thirty and forty.   
  
"Mmhmm," the boy -- Ryuichi -- says, smiling bashfully, "Yeah, I'll be eighteen this year. Is that all, Chiba-san? I'll be back tomorrow with the fees -- I'm sorry I -- "  
  
"No," Ryohei says, suddenly. He notices Keita and smiles at him, which leads Ryuichi to startle and look at Keita too.  _Such deep, black eyes. Old for their age, something hidden in them --_ "I'll teach you for free." Ryohei smiles at Ryuichi -- Oshiro Ryuichi -- again, and something like a secret passes between them. "You're so good, I'll teach you for nothing -- it's a waste otherwise -- but don't tell anyone." He touches a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture.  
  
Ryohei smiles and Ryuichi returns it hesistantly, unable to resist the warmth of the smile that had thousands wild over it at the height of their career. Keita feels a smile touching his own lips, as well.   
  
\---   
  
"He was just  _too_  good at the trials today, I wasn't about to pass up the opportunity." Ryohei says, eating with care. They no longer shovel food into their mouths like the ravenous sixteen-year-olds they once were. Keita takes a bite and raises an eyebrow, prompting him to continue.  
  
"I'd a feeling he'd be back with just the fees for today's lessons, apologizing profusely and then running away, and that's it. You look at him, he can't afford it. Everything on him's worn."   
  
Keita hadn't really noticed, but Ryohei, obviously, is still the master of reading people as he ever was.   
  
Ryohei smiles and pushes at his shoulder with a palm. "What's up, mister star? Getting all broody in your old age?"   
  
Keita laughs, then sobers, and apparently Ryohei can read something in his eyes, because the jokey tone drops from his voice.  
  
" _Any_ way. Like I said, he's really good. You can even come watch him tomorrow if you want. Maybe a little old since they always like them real young, like us when -- uh, but he doesn't need much. Just a little bit of polish, and he'll shine."   
  
"And he's got the long hair, and those eyes."  
  
Ryohei smacks his arm. "Ow!"   
  
"Stop it, Keita. It's no good torturing yourself." Ryohei is serious, now. Then he sighs. "When will you ever give someone else a chance, Keita? Eighteen years is a long time."   
  
Keita feels a strain in his chest, and a sudden, mortifying prickle of tears. He buries his head in his hands and hopes his voice doesn't give. At times like these he's glad they're no longer popular like they once were, there's no smile to keep up, anymore.   
  
"Look, I'll admit he looked a lot like -- Ryuichi." Ryohei's voice is strained. "And it's not like I wasn't thinking that while I watched him today. "But Keita -- "  
  
"I know," Keita says. He drags his sleeve across his eyes and then gives Ryohei a watery smile. "Hey, what are you doing for Christmas?" The better to get off the subject, even if it's too early.  
  
"Going out with Ken-kun," Ryohei answers promptly, and then, "Sorry."   
  
"Nothing to be sorry for." He drags another smile out of himself, placating Ryohei a little.   
  
\---  
  
He doesn't know why, but he finds himself coming by to watch practice. There's a hint of nostalgia about it, as he and Ryohei share a smile over the heads of the sweating boys, giving their max to the dance. One of them, far to the back, is cursing under his breath as he screws up the dance steps repeatedly, but Ryuichi -- Oshiro Ryuichi, Keita reminds himself -- is right smack front-and-center, and performing everything effortlessly.  
  
Ryohei raises an eyebrow at him.  _See?_  
  
Keita rolls eyes right back.  _Right on the money as usual._  
  
Ryuichi's dancing, his body moves to the beat, hair plastered to the forehead with sweat as he jives to the right and then goes down for a breakdance move.   
  
Keita can't take his eyes off the boy. God, he feels like a lecher, the kid's only 18. Something happy and sad all at once twists inside of him, something shaken, like a memory come to life. Something you can only look at but not touch, because your time is past.   
  
Ryuichi's muscles tense, then relax, and his ponytail whips about and catches him smack in the face as he pivots and then lunges.   
  
Keita's breath catches, because it's an echo of a memory he can't get rid of.  
  
Soon enough class is over, and it's evening already, sun setting earlier these days. He catches the boy looking at him from the corner of his eye, and pretends not to notice.  
  
Apparently the boy isn't all that bashful, or maybe he's hiding it, for he comes up to Keita with a CD and a marker.   
  
"Please -- " The boy sticks the CD in front of him, words leaving his mouth in a rush as his two hands hold out the CD and he bows. Keita frowns at the CD, confused, then realises it's one of  _his_. One of his older releases, actually. One that he's pretty proud of.   
  
"Sure." Keita takes the CD and the marker and scribbles something on the cracked cover. It looks well-played and loved.   
  
"I'm a fan," the boy says. He fidgets and makes a face, like Ryuichi used to do, not being able to sit still when they were younger or when he was nervous before a concert. "It's you -- I mean, watching -- I, uh. Why I took up music, dance -- I -- "  
  
Keita tries his best to project calm and appreciation, and the boy's eyes melt with a tiny bit of adoration. How wrong is this, what he's feeling! How  _much_  the boy looks like Ryuichi.   
  
_On that Winter's night, so long ago ..._ Keita shoves that thought away and tries furiously to concentrate.   
  
"I'm happy," Keita says, "that I've touched at least one person, with my music." It sounds to his ears like one of those cheesy lines they always feed to the press, but the boy smiles at him more tentatively, and then his smile unexpectedly blossoms. "Thank you, Tachibana-san!"   
  
Then Ryuichi's taking the pen and CD out of his hands and practically dancing across the room and scooting out the door but not before shooting a sweet, nervous look at him. There's also daring in that boy, he can see. Something wild that'll come out after the formalities and distances of society break down and they become equals.   
  
He shakes his head to himself, and Ryohei comes over, clapping him on the back.   
  
"So, Keita?"  
  
"You were right," he admits. "He's good."   
  
"I didn't know he was a fan of yours, though." Ryohei worries at his lower lip.  
  
"Don't worry so much, Ryohei," Keita says wearily. Maybe Ryohei's right and eighteen years is a long time, but the guilt and fear and loss never quite leaves him, even though no one's ever said it was his fault -- but no one's ever  _known_  --   
  
He remembers Ryohei crying then, sobbing till his throat was raw and unable to make a sound. And himself, standing there, numb in shock. Ryohei's hands going around him, attempting to reassure him even then, Ryohei's body shaking with dry sobs.   
  
\---  
  
So he's watching the boy. And to deny it would be lying to himself, but to actually  _say_  anything would merely be taking advantage of the idol-status he has in the boy's eyes.  
  
Keita knows Ryohei suspects something, but he doesn't say anything.   
  
"Hey, Tachibana-san," the boy says shyly, coming up behind him as he turns to leave.   
  
"Call me Keita, please," he says, and the boy complies, haltingly.  
  
\---  
  
Shortly after he's called away on tour, one of those final, curtain-call tours that signal a part of your life is over, and there's no more anticipation of the next, no more promises to top this tour, no more chances.  
  
But that's the way he wanted it, didn't he?   
  
He comes back a month later, knocks on the studio door.  _Ryohei would you like to have dinner with me_  on the tip on his tongue. It's always been Ryohei asking, after all. It's time he reciprocated.  
  
It's snowing, a rare sight in Tokyo. Takes out the skyline. Ryohei's setting the room to rights, to his own standards. The boy comes in, flushed from the cold and a dusting of snow on his coat, gauche and alluring all at the same time. His lips are pink, and he waves to Ryohei and then bows to Keita.   
  
"He got scouted," Ryohei remarks to him, after a time, and then pulls Ryuichi into a hug. "I saw, the talent competition," he murmurs into the boy's hair, all spangled with melt. "Congratulations."   
  
Ryuichi grins pleasedly, and there's even that crooked bite to his grin that gives it that hint of naughtiness, very like a willful child.  
  
"I have places to go today," Ryohei eyes Keita. "Did you forget?"   
  
Oh.   
  
"No," Keita says hastily, "No, of course not." Then he takes out the gift from his pocket and presents it to Ryohei. He's gotten better at lying over the years, better at fooling everyone.   
  
After Ryohei locks the door behind them and rolls down the shutters, he stands there and waves Ryohei off. Ryuichi comes up to him, fingers in his coat pockets and shoulders high, jutted and awkward. "I got scouted, Ta- Keita-san."   
  
"Keita," he says firmly, then, "Congratulations."  
  
Ryuichi's eyes are so dark he could lose himself in them. The light is fading fast, and it was on a day just like this --  
  
Well, Keita's become a better person since then. Decisive, braver. More considerate, less selfish. So he likes to think, or at least hope.  
  
"We can walk, while you tell me all about it," Keita offers. A self-deprecating laugh. "Christmas and I've got nowhere to be."   
  
"Hmm," Ryuichi says. He's different, but still so much the same as the other one, and it reminds Keita painfully of all the things he's left behind.   
  
"It's a boyband, but we play instruments, like I wanted ... " Ryuichi ventures, and that's a start. He flushes to the tips of his ears, breath frosting erratically. "The other members are so pretty though."   
  
"You are, too," Keita says firmly, and Ryuichi ducks his head, unwilling or unable to believe.   
  
"Please don't, if you don't believe it, Keita," Ryuichi says, and Keita freezes. The intersection before them is a torrent of car headlights and a cacophony of noise. This Ryuichi's careless, where the other was impulsive. Now Keita catches hold of Ryuichi's arm and pulls him further up the curb.  
  
"Don't." Keita realises it sounds stupid, and amends himself. "It's dangerous here if you don't watch where you're going. And I believe it, I just never --"   
  
Ryuichi looks at him sadly. "It wasn't your fault, Keita," he says.   
  
Keita's heart stops for a moment, then he forces himself to take one breath and then another.  
  
"Ryu-ichi?"  
  
"I came back for you, Keita," Ryuichi's saying, and the name rolls so smoothly off his tongue now, with all the familiarity he's wished for, longed for throughout all the lonely years. "And I know you've changed."   
  
Ryuichi takes his hand, and he grips back, firmly, where he's never had the courage to do so before, and Ryuichi smiles. "Merry Christmas, Keita."  
  
The stoplight turns colours and they cross the intersection to the brightness of the lights on the other side.  
  


_end._


End file.
